


Mind Sport

by inlovewithnight



Category: Elementary (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-22
Updated: 2013-12-22
Packaged: 2018-01-05 14:19:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1094935
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inlovewithnight/pseuds/inlovewithnight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mind sport: a game of skill where the mental component is more significant than the physical.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mind Sport

**Author's Note:**

  * For [shopfront](https://archiveofourown.org/users/shopfront/gifts).



Joan considered her trips to the running path to be sacred time, and after nearly a year as partners she had finally impressed that idea on Sherlock as well. He would make a sulky remark or two sometimes when she left the house, about how her being out of reach by phone was potentially dangerous, or how while he did enjoy being left to his own devices, the unpredictability of her return was less than convenient, or something incoherent about repetitive stress injuries.

She wasn’t his pet, though, or his nanny, and he knew it well enough to stop complaining and wave her out the door. Eventually.

On the day in question, Joan’s run was a good one. She found her stride and leaned into it, cutting through the miles without feeling them. Her breath and body sang the way that physiology operating correctly was meant to. She couldn’t wait to get home and shout at Sherlock about endorphins while he stared over the edge of his book with amusement and eager anticipation of a chance to break in and lecture her.

They had their own special routines these days. She enjoyed them.

When she got home, though, Sherlock was gone. Not cause for alarm. He wasn’t her pet, either, and for someone who considered himself terrible with people, he had a considerable network of acquaintances and friends, no matter how much he insisted on labeling them _contacts_.

No, Sherlock’s absence wasn’t itself a cause for alarm.

That came from the fact that her phone was lying precisely in the center of the kitchen table, nowhere near where she had left it.

When she unlocked the screen, it opened to the notepad function, where a serene few lines of text requested that she open the envelope waiting in Sherlock’s study and then call his phone at her convenience.

Call his phone, noted the cool, analytical part of her brain that he had pressed on her to develop above and beyond a surgeon’s need for it, expanding its reach from the operating theater across as much of the rest of her life as she could. Not call _him_. Implication that phone and Sherlock weren’t necessarily together at this time.

She squared her shoulders, flicked sweat-stiff hair from her eyes, and said aloud, “If this is another pop quiz, Holmes, I’m going to kill you. Bell will help me cover it up. I’ll spend the rest of my life on a beach in Tahiti, and I won’t be sorry at all.”

No response. No change in the silent, peaceful resonance of the house.

She walked to the study and lifted the envelope from Sherlock’s chair. It was heavy, some kind of expensive stationery with linen in the paper or whatever rich people with delusions of grandeur used. She tore the envelop open without regard, unfolded the equally expensive paper within, and read.

> Miss Watson:
> 
> I hope this message finds you well. I won’t elaborate on my own condition—I’m sure that’s of little interest to you, and I never care to be boring. I’m sure you can appreciate that.
> 
> In the tedium of this place, Miss Watson, I find my thoughts turning to you again and again. They consider my wings quite thoroughly clipped here, and for the present, so it must remain. But the mind does need some form of exercise, dear Miss Watson, and mine, in its idleness, has hit upon the idea of inviting you to play a game.
> 
> Of course, it would do me no good at all if you declined to play, as I know is your first instinct. I can picture your face as you read my invitation; I can imagine you rolling your eyes! Never worry, I’m a step ahead of you.
> 
> To ensure your amenability, our mutual friend, my poor foolish darling Sherlock, has been taken as collateral to your participation. As such, his freedom is also the prize.
> 
> Details of the game are to follow, my dear, as soon as you confirm your intent to play. To do so, call Mr. Holmes’ mobile, and we will proceed from there.
> 
> I presume that it goes without saying that if you contact the police, all offers are null and void, including and especially those related to the continued well-being of Sherlock Holmes.
> 
> Cordially, and with great anticipation,
> 
> J. Moriarty

Joan dropped the letter to the floor and pushed her hair back from her forehead. She didn’t doubt for a moment that the letter really was from Moriarty; the dedication to never using one word where three would do pretty well settled that. Even from prison, the woman wouldn’t leave them alone.

**

She showered before making the call, wanting to feel as prepared as she could. Since there was no preparing for Moriarty, cleanliness would have to do.

She seated herself at the kitchen table, her laptop open in front of her and a notepad and pen to one side. Taking a deep breath to center herself, she dialed Sherlock.

“Hello, Miss Watson,” said a neutral, nondescript voice. Trained like an American newscaster’s, to eliminate any distinctive accent. Of course. Predictable.

“Give me proof that Sherlock Holmes is unharmed,” she said. “Now.”

There was a slight pause. “Check your e-mail, Miss Watson.”

The message had been sent from Sherlock’s phone. She copied the IP address for tracing, but without much hope; Moriarty and her people were far beyond that sort of mistake. It would probably come back sweetly and sincerely claiming that the message had been sent from Mars.

The body of the message was blank, but there were three pictures attached, all showing Sherlock seated in a wooden chair. His hands were covered with oven mitts and cuffed behind his back, and he looked profoundly annoyed, but there were no obvious signs of harm.

“I want proof of health every twelve hours,” she said. “Use the CNN homepage as time and date stamp.”

“Very well.” Another slight pause. “You accept Moriarty’s invitation to play?”

“I don’t know the terms and conditions yet. I’m not going to walk into a game with her with my hands tied.”

“Certainly. Please check your e-mail again.”

This message was from Moriarty herself, and Joan logged the IP again, reasonably sure it would come back as either Mars again or Newgate Prison, telling her nothing she didn’t know.

> Miss Watson:
> 
> I’m so glad to have your attention, though I never doubted I would.
> 
> The structure of the game is simple: a set of three challenges. Winner of two takes the prize. (Need I remind you of the prize? Of course not.)
> 
> I will design the first challenge, you the second, and the third will be an acknowledged classic. Of course, given my present situation, there are more limitations on the design of your challenge than mine. I hope you can accept this as an unfortunate but inevitable consequence of your role in placing me here.
> 
> You may accept the terms by simply informing my associate. The first challenge will be presented to you tomorrow precisely at 9 AM.
> 
> If you do not accept, of course, our darling prize is forfeit.
> 
> Yours in sincere anticipation,
> 
> J. Moriarty

Joan closed her eyes, curling the fingers of her free hand around the edge of the table until a sharp spike of pain told her that a fingernail had cracked. The next time she saw Moriarty, she was going to force her to communicate entirely in Tweets. 140 characters would drive her mad.

“Miss Watson?” asked the man on the phone. “Your decision, please.”

“I prefer Ms. Watson,” she said coldly. “Or Dr. I did earn the title. Tell your boss that as well.”

“Of course. And your decision?”

She took a deep breath and opened her eyes. “I accept. Of course I accept. Let the games begin.”

**

As promised, at 9 AM a knock came at the brownstone’s door.

A blank-faced man in a black suit stood on the steps, holding a large mailing envelope. “Ms. Watson?”

“Yes.”

“Here are your instructions. Please take your time reviewing them. I will remain here, available to transport you as needed.”

She looked at him, then at the long black car parked at the curb. “You most certainly will not. I’ll handle my transit personally. You may leave.”

He inclined his head slightly and walked away. She closed the door, reminding herself to breathe deeply and slowly, from her core. She needed all of her wits operating at top capability; everything and anything here could be and should be assumed to be a trap. Moriarty was brilliant and ruthless, but she was human, no more or less than Joan was herself. This wasn’t impossible. It was a game.

Joan hated games with stakes any less abstract than baseball. In college she had let a roommate talk her into attending a weekly poker game. She lost $50 and swore off games of chance forever, her first night out.

A friend was worth considerably more than $50. Sherlock was worth more.

The envelope contained three photographs of paintings, a business card for a curator at the Met, and another letter from Moriarty.

> Watson:
> 
> I’m so glad you’ve indulged me in this bit of entertainment. It’s such a wonderful break from the monotony. I’m sure you understand how dull life can be without something to engage the mind.
> 
> I wonder if darling Sherlock has figured out the concept of the game yet? He has plenty of time to think at the moment, as well. A dull life of his own, if perhaps only temporarily.
> 
> But enough small talk: on to the game!
> 
> The object of the first challenge, my challenge to you, is simple:
> 
> Which painting is a forgery?
> 
> (Before you cry that it’s unfair for me to focus the challenge on a particular interest of mine, Watson, dear, remember that you can focus your challenge to me on anything you want. Anything at all.)
> 
> The enclosed photographs are your starting point. They are all housed at the Metropolitan Museum of Art. You have until 2:00 PM tomorrow to come to your conclusion. Conduct all the research you wish, visit the paintings, call in consultants of your own. (None in legal fields, though, of course! That would break Sherlock’s heart.)
> 
> At 2:00 tomorrow you have an appointment with Dr. Samuel Whitaker. His card is enclosed. At that time you will state your conclusion and make your case. Dr. Whitaker will inform you if you are correct. (He will inform me as well, dear. Don’t worry a bit.)
> 
> Best of luck, Watson. I look forward to your work more than I can possibly say.
> 
> J. Moriarty

**

Joan stretched slowly, gasping in pain as the muscles in her back protested after hours spent hunched over her computer. Researching art history and signs of forgery was a very specialized field that couldn’t be replicated by Google and frantic e-mails to experts who were not inclined to answer in a hurry, which Moriarty had known perfect well from the moment she set up this game. Joan was playing exactly as Moriarty intended. She had to be.

She didn’t have any better ideas.

She got to her feet and walked stiffly, painfully to the kitchen. She put the teakettle on to heat and stared at the wall above the sink, rolling the mishmash of facts and possibilities over and over in her mind.

Painting number one: “A Bishop Saint and Saint Procopius.” Painted between 1490 and 1500 by an Austrian called Master of Eggenburg. Two slightly cartoonish figures stood against a bare background, halos marking their holy state.

Painting number two: “Don Gaspar de Guzman, Count-Duke of Olivares.” Painted 1635 by Velazquez. A man sat on a horse, the animal poised on its haunches to leap or strike out. A battlefield stretched away from them.

Painting number three: “Still Life with a Glass and Oysters.” Painted 1640 by Jan Davidoz de Heem, Dutch. Exactly as described in the title.

No commonalities of era, nationality, or subject. The first wasn’t even currently on display, though the other two were. None had any rumors of forgery associated with them, or gaps in their provenance. The Velazquez had the most recognizable artist and eye-catching subject matter, but its value wasn’t by any means exceptional. The Eggenburg was the oldest, but not significantly so or from a little-known era.

They were all great art, but none of them were astounding.

“Is moderate greatness still greatness at all?” she asked the kitchen. The teakettle whistled in reply.

She retreated to the study with her tea, sipping slowly and watching Clyde lumber around his terrarium. In the back of her mind, in the one section not devoted to furiously worrying at the paintings, she wondered what the hell she was going to design to challenge Moriarty. What could leave her feeling as helpless as Joan felt now?

Nothing, because Moriarty had nothing to fear if she lost. Sherlock would return to a neutral state where she could come after him again later. If Joan lost him, though, he could be lost forever.

She put her mug down and buried her face in her hands for a moment. _Focus, Joanie. Set the extraneous and distracting details aside until later. Focus on the case, the puzzle. The game. Picture Moriarty’s smug, pretty face, like something that would appear in one of the goddamn paintings. Picture how happy she would be to see you crack._

She breathed for a moment, counting to fifty, then stood and took her scarf from the back of her chair, wrapping it carefully around her throat.

“I’m off to the Met,” she told Clyde. “Maybe being surrounded by greatness will bring some inspiration.”

**  
She took half an hour to walk around the museum, acclimating herself to her surroundings. She stood in front of canvases that weren't of any particular interest to her, letting her eyes get used to the sweep of brush strokes, the play of color and light.

This might not be how Sherlock would begin this investigation. He would do a brief lay of the land and then zero in on whatever detail didn't fit. But art wasn't a field that Joan felt comfortable in. She needed to acclimate.

Color, light, pigment. The remembered physicality of brush strokes. They pieced together into art like skin and tendon and the neuroelectric sparks of consciousness made a living body. An individual.

Not as interesting. But she was present in herself now, present in the museum with the art, and she didn't have all the time in the world.

She took the map from her purse and looked at where the man at the visitor desk had marked the location of the two galleries she needed. The Spanish battle scene and the Dutch still life. She had turned the absence of the two bishops painting from display over and over in her mind on the cab ride to the Met. It was either an obvious lead or a too obvious red herring, the painting she couldn't examine for herself. She was leaning toward red herring, but what if that was what Moriarty expected her to do? What if it was a bluff, but not in the direction she thought?

Or what if it was a double bluff in that direction, and Moriarty expected her to think it was first a trick and then not a trick, and so had looped around again to making it a trick, not expecting Joan to--

She was going to give herself a headache like this. Enough.

The Velázquez. It was beautiful, of course, a giant canvas alight with color. Powerful man on white horse. Classic imagery, painted to flatter a patron's ego just so. Beautiful and boring and a lie. Maybe this Don Gaspar was a sickly guy who rarely got out of bed, much less rode into battle, but he wanted to pretend he was, and so the loyal Velázquez--

Shit. She needed to look at the life stories of Velázquez and the don, see if there were any clues in the histories. There wasn't nearly enough time for this investigation, not at all.

Sherlock would tell her time was a lovely commodity and a pleasant luxury but in no way a necessity. She took a breath and looked up at the painting again.

Compared to the photograph in her hand, the living painting was stunning. The texture of the brush work, the vibrancy of the color after hundreds of years; it was amazing. Maybe that was a clue itself, the brightness of the colors? How alive the painting seemed? Could that last for so many years?

She didn't know. She took her map out again and went to find the still life.

It, too, was lovely in its old age. The colors were less dramatic, like the subject itself, and the brushwork was more subtle, but still, it lived. It was all but breathing on the wall in front of her, the echo of a long-ago snack sacrificed to art on a long-ago afternoon.

She walked back and forth between the two paintings, studying them again and again, detouring into other galleries between them to refresh her eyes on other scenes, sculptures and paintings that didn't require her close inspection.

Not that the two objects of her interest actually required it either. Her presence and her worries affected them not in the slightest. They would sit and wait and present their colors and lines regardless of her, for as long as the museum housed them. The painting of the bishops, locked away in whatever storeroom they'd found for it, wrapped up and boxed up tight, it didn't care either. It would hold its scene and show its face to nothing forever.

Joan walked to the Velázquez again and looked up at the horse's turned ears and rolling eye.

What inspired a person to forgery?

What made Moriarty, or anyone else, look at paintings like these and decide to copy them exactly enough that only an expert could tell? What was the motivation? What was the psychology?

It was stifling, a little, to walk through the museum surrounded by great works considered more valuable than many human lives, with histories of their own. Some of them even had biographies written about them. That was more than Joan herself could ever hope for.

Was it an urge to possess them? To tame the things and bring them down to ground? Or...

She stepped back from the painting and looked around the room as a whole, trying to pull it all into context.

The paintings, with their own mysterious quasi-lifeforce. If you could replicate them, and do it well enough to fool a trained eye, that was powerful, wasn't it? Like creating life. Creating... art.

No. That didn't match what she knew about Moriarty at all. The woman would never be satisfied with creative power. Anyone could do that; a toddler with finger paints was creating. Elephants and lemurs made paintings. That wasn't it.

She knew she was getting close, though. She could feel it, nagging at the edge of her mind. She walked a slow circle around the gallery, letting the idea keep turning itself around and around.

She made another circle and bit her lip in frustration, about to stop and return to the still life when she heard a tour guide's voice from the next gallery. The words were mundane for the setting-types of paint used, theories about the context of what it meant that this artist had those paints at that time-but Joan zeroed in on one phrase, one thing the young woman said in a throwaway remark.

Experts believe--

Experts. Joan turned again and looked up at the Velázquez. It was a large painting. Thousands of brush strokes. She had no idea how many hours of work, but it must be a stunning amount.

If that could be replicated, not for the joy of creation, but for the satisfaction of fooling the experts--

Not joy, but spite. That fit with the Moriarty Joan had seen. The satisfaction of her own triumph, her own superiority, knowing something others did not. That fit.

Joan smiled up at Don Gaspar and his horse. "I'm figuring you out," she said softly.

Her smile faded as she realized that a step closer to understanding Moriarty was not a step closer to winning this challenge. As far as that went, she was still absolutely nowhere.

And time was ticking on.

**

Joan arrived at her appointment with Dr. Whitaker tired, annoyed, and clutching a venti mocha with both hands. A three-hour nap between frantic and less fruitful than desired research sprints was not what she needed to be at her best.

Her ponytail was uneven, her back hurt, she had forgotten to brush her teeth, and the shot in her mocha was burned. This wasn’t even in the same zip code as her best.

Still, she was at the appointment, on time, and none of Moriarty’s thugs had been waiting outside the brownstone to hit her over the head and carry her off to whatever basement Sherlock was stored in. Small favors.

“Ms.… Watson, is it?” Whitaker asked, glancing at a piece of paper on his desk. “Nice to meet you. I’m afraid I can only give you about fifteen minutes. I was told by my colleague that I’m supposed to settle some sort of bet?”

“Your colleague?” Joan asked, trying to cover her lack of equilibrium.

He frowned and looked at the sheet of paper again. “Yes, of course. Dr. Reismann at the Institute sent you, didn’t she?”

“Oh! Oh, yes, of course. My apologies. I spoke to a… a friend, who referred me _through_ Dr. Reismann. I’m a little off-balance today.” She took another sip of coffee and winced. “Sorry.”

“No problem at all.” His tone said otherwise. This was off to a great start.

“Well…” She was going to have to bunt and hope for the best, because there was absolutely no way she could adequately explain. She wasn’t even sure she understood herself. “How much did Dr. Reismann tell you?”

“That you were challenged to identify one of our paintings as a forgery.” He raised an eyebrow. “Correct?”

“Art isn’t my field, but I take a… an amateur interest. The challenge was along the lines of helping me expand my skills. A teaching exercise, I suppose.”

He settled back in his chair. “I certainly hope you don’t stand to lose much, Ms. Watson.”

She took a deep breath. “The three paintings in question were these.” She handed over a folder holding the three images Moriarty had sent her. “I assume you’re familiar with them.”

He glanced through them, smiling slightly. “Quite. The De Heem is one of my favorites. So simple and yet so richly presented.”

“I’m fond of the Velazquez, myself.”

“Oh, it’s very impressive, there’s no doubt. But it’s so dramatic, so… almost stereotypical. Almost gauche.”

Joan blinked at him. “I suppose.”

The silence stretched awkwardly until he cleared his throat. “What’s your guess, Ms. Watson?”

That hit like a punch; all her research and all the different approaches, her stabs at the psychology of art forgery, her fruitless e-mails to experts, and it all came down to a guess. She honestly didn’t know.

She hoped, if Moriarty was keeping Sherlock informed about this, that he wasn’t too disappointed in her.

“The Velazquez,” she said finally. “I think the Velazquez is a forgery.”

His expression didn’t change. “Why?”

She took another folder from her bag and handed it to him. “These are pictures taken of the Don Gaspar portrait at various points over the last twenty-five years. As you can see, it varies considerably in tone and brightness before and after 1995. There are fewer pictures of the still life, and the painting of the Bishops has hardly been on display at all in this period, so I have less than an ideal data set for cross-comparison, but the distinct change…” She trailed off and cleared her throat. “That’s my argument. The Velazquez is a forgery, and was replaced in the gallery somewhere around 1995.”

He was quiet for a few minutes, shuffling through the pictures in the folder, then set the folder on his desk. “You made the best case with what was available, Ms. Watson.”

She waited for a moment, then spoke. “But I’m wrong.”

“Yes.”

“Which painting is the forgery?”

He folded his hands over his stomach. “None of them.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“None of the paintings are forgeries.” He looked over the rims of his glasses at her, stern and compassionate, like he was playing the role of her father. She already had a father, she didn’t need him. If he kept it up she was going to throw her now-cold latte at him. “Ms. Watson, please, do you think we would knowingly hang a forgery in the Met?”

“Stranger things have happened.”

“Ha. Well.” He turned away from her, facing his computer. “The challenge was to identify the forgery, and the correct answer was ‘none of the above.’ I’m sorry you’ve lost this round of the game.”

She froze, forcing herself to keep breathing steadily while her heart began to pound. So he did know what was going on. “May I ask about the difference in the appearance of the painting before and after 1995?”

“Oh, yes, of course.” He frowned slightly at his e-mail and began to type. “The Velazquez was cleaned that year.”

_Cleaned_. So simple and she completely overlooked it. Amateur. “Of course.”

“But you did very well in noting the difference, I must say.” He clicked send on the e-mail and turned back to her. “Well, Dr. Reismann has been informed of the outcome. Is there anything else I can do for you?”

Joan felt a chill run up her spine as it occurred to her that Dr. Reismann was likely receiving e-mails in Newgate Prison, despite her complaints of devastating boredom under another name. “No, I’m done here. Thank you.”

Alfredo was waiting outside for her, his eyes scanning up and down the sidewalk. “Anything weird?” she asked, hitching her purse higher on her shoulder.

“Just the obvious.”

“Let's get out of here, then. I don't know how long I have to get my challenge ready for her, but I bet it's shorter than I'd like.”

**

The answer was waiting for her when she got home: another note on expensive stationery, informing her that a complete packet of what Moriarty needed to consider her challenge would be picked up from the brownstone at 9:00 AM in two days' time. Joan read the note twice, wondering at the lack of baiting her for her failure with the paintings. Was this kindness? Or had living down to her expectations and failing to surprise led Moriarty to lose interest?

There was no reason for that idea to bother Joan as much as it threatened to.

“Do you have a plan?” Alfredo asked, leaning against the wall and watching her study the note.

“An idea. It'll take me all of the time I've got to pull it together and check it for holes, though.”

“Anything I can do to help?”

She looked up, startled. “You want to get involved with this?”

He shrugged. “I'm here to help if I can. Kind of surprised you haven't had me out looking for Sherlock, honestly.”

“I wouldn't even know where to begin. I haven't had time to think about him at all.” She frowned. “That's not what I meant. I think about him constantly. But I haven't had time to consider _his_ case, separately from everything else.”

“I knew what you meant.” He smiled slightly and shook his head. “I'm not entirely useless, though, all right? I can do a little looking around on my own. Give me the locations from the last time she came around. Everything related to her and her people. It's a place to start.”

“And all the proof of life pictures so far.” She nodded. “I'm sorry, Alfredo. It's not that I don't respect you. It just...”

“It didn't occur to you, because you've got a lot on your mind.”

She smiled despite herself. “Yes.”

“See? I know things.” He grinned and stepped toward the door. “I'll be back in half an hour.”

“Where are you going?”

“To pick up food, lady. You haven't eaten all day and you'll keep forgetting if I don't help you out.”

“What would I do without you?”

“Keep forgetting until you pass out and Sherlock ends up on an island playing love slave to the wicked witch of the fake passports.”

“I'm not going to let that happen.”

He stopped in the doorway, looking at her with sharp eyes. “I know. Now get me the info I need and then get started on your special prize box of beating the witch at her own game.”

**

The trick of it, again, was in trying to anticipate how Moriarty would think, how she would approach the problem. Her specialty was layers of confusion; obvious answers that shattered like glass into puzzles. Joan ended up sitting at the table mapping out on paper how many layers of fake-outs and false positives she would need to be sure she’d fooled Moriarty. When she reached half a dozen and still couldn’t be sure, she gave up.

She stood, stretched, and rubbed her neck, staring blankly at Clyde’s terrarium. How did you outwit a master of the game, when the game was deception and confusion? How did you defeat someone who committed gaslighting and mind games as easily as walking down the street?

She froze, her hand lingering on the back of her neck. “Revert to the obvious,” she said, her voice startling in the empty room.

She hurried up to her bedroom, to the box where she’d started keeping her own files on cases she’d worked with Sherlock. She fanned through three of them, searching for the idea that was nagging at the edge of her memory. There was a case, one from the summer, where the obvious had been eliminated and they’d looked for layers that spiraled down and down, only to realize…

She found the file and paged through it, a smile slowly crossing her face as the details came back into focus. Yes. This just might work.

**

Joan’s challenge to Moriarty took the form of another slim folder of photographs and a single page of typed summary. A second page gave the parameters for the round of play; Moriarty had the same number of hours to work in as Joan had had, exactly 29, to begin when the folder was given to her. When the round was closed, she was to provide her answer to Joan via e-mail, since it was clear that she was entirely able to do so. Joan had had 15 minutes with Dr. Whitaker; therefore, the timestamp on Moriarty's results e-mail must be within 15 minutes of the end of play or she forfeited the round.

It felt good to be seizing control of the rules. Joan felt calmer than she had in days when the grim-faced driver took the folder from her, bowed, and returned to his car.

Joan hadn't counted on the waiting being as difficult as the powerless, frantic race of the first round. She sat in the study, watching cars crawl up and down the street with as much purpose and effect as Clyde marching around his terrarium.

She tried to picture Moriarty's face on receiving the challenge, and found that she couldn't. She had no idea if the woman would react with anticipation, annoyance, smug delight, cool detachment... she couldn't tell, and she wasn't sure which one she would prefer, anyway. They all held their traps.

Thinking about Moriarty too much made her feel restless and trapped. She stood up and walked a slow circle around each floor of the brownstone, checking each room as if it might hold a clue or an answer. A sign.

There was nothing, of course. Empty, quiet rooms. Clyde in his terrarium. The refrigerator humming quietly to itself.

Nothing to act on, nothing to do. Nothing but walking circles with her thoughts, over and over.

She thought about calling Alfredo and getting a status report on his search for Sherlock. He'd promised to call if he made any progress, but she could ask anyway. Or maybe she could go join him. She might see something he had overlooked. She might be able to help. She might--

She might completely get in the way and accomplish nothing, or imply that she didn't think he was competent on his own. Neither of which were what she wanted, and neither of which would help Sherlock in the slightest.

The only way to do that was to win at Moriarty's miserable too-clever little game.

_Too clever for her own good_ , Joan thought, looking out the window again. _Definitely too clever for my own good, or Sherlock's. I prefer the stupid, the greedy, the accidentally violent. Give me the someone who hurts others to protect himself. But spare me the infatuated with their own cleverness. I don't have the patience._

Of course, this time she didn't have any choice but to have the patience. Another thing to blame Moriarty for. She could write a book.

Her phone chirped and she thumbed it open, her pulse quickening when she saw it was a check-in from Sherlock's captors.

He looked the same as he had in all of them: annoyed, but not visibly hurt. He looked more tired in this one, with deep circles under his eyes and his hair in a mess. But he was looking directly at the camera with defiant eyes, his jaw set, and she was fairly confident he hadn't lost his spirit.

There was something else bothering her about the picture, something striking her as vaguely off or just different, but she couldn't pin it down. She was tired, too. Maybe a nap was the best way to pass the time while Moriarty was playing her round, though she couldn't imagine she would actually be able to fall asleep.

She could try some yoga stretches and a hot shower and see where she got, though. Better than staring out the window.

She was in mountain pose when a knock came at the door. She opened it to find the grim-faced driver standing there again, another note in his hand.

“We have to stop meeting like this,” she said.

He inclined his head slightly and handed her the envelope. “Ms. Watson.”

She took the note and closed the door, tearing the envelope open as she walked back to the study.

> Watson--
> 
> Slight change of plans. Don't worry, I'm not disputing your timetable. Not in the slightest—you've been scrupulously fair. However, I'd like you to come to Newgate at 2 PM on the day in question and we'll handle the solution of your challenge and then engage in the third immediately. Efficiency, yes? I believe that's an American virtue.
> 
> My driver will bring you. Or, if you still refuse to accept his hospitality, you may arrange your own transit. I suppose Newgate is hardly difficult to find.
> 
> J. Moriarty

_So much for the illusion of control_ , Joan thought as she placed the note with the others on Sherlock's desk.

**

She found herself dressing like Moriarty for the visit.

Not literally, of course. But she pushed through her closet looking for sharp lines and blocks of color. She looked in the mirror and found herself in a black dress with a red jacket and knee-high boots, her hair pulled tightly back from her face in a bun. Moriarty's style, Moriarty's way of claiming space and signaling power. It made Joan's stomach turn when she recognized it.

She traded it all for flat lace-up boots, jeans, and a black button-down with a soft grey scarf, her hair tumbling down over her shoulders. She didn't feel as powerful on the second look in the mirror, but she did feel like herself, and that was probably better.

She drove herself to Newgate, aware of the black car and grim driver following her but willing to allow it as long as he stayed a few cars back. She could pretend he was a referee in the game instead of an unwelcome intrusion as long as Moriarty didn't deliberately move to shatter the illusion.

At the prison, she was checked for weapons and waved through to a private meeting room. The driver came in a few moments later, a briefcase in his hands. Joan assumed that had been searched as well, though she didn't like the idea of anything being allowed in the cage with her and Moriarty unless she'd had a chance to inspect it first. Trusting the Newgate guards to do their jobs seemed more than a little naïve. That wouldn't have crossed her mind a year ago; Sherlock was constantly an influence.

She was going to have so much to tell him when he got home. The brownstone had been too quiet.

The door to the prisoners' side swung open, and Moriarty entered, a guard a step behind. Even her prison uniform gave the same impression of power and self-possession; perhaps it came from how she carried herself, instead of the clothes. Her hair was pulled back tightly and her eyes were bright as she looked at Joan, cool with delight.

“Watson,” she said. “It's so good to see you.”

Joan remained seated, and ignored her outstretched hand. Moriarty let it fall back to her side casually, as if it didn't matter. If anything, she smiled.

“Moriarty,” Joan said. “Shall we get started?”

“No time for small talk? Probably for the best. I would hate to bore you, darling.” Moriarty seated herself across from Joan, casting brief glances at the driver and the guard, who stood on opposite ends of the room. “But I hope you understand if I don't want to cut our time together short. I have so few opportunities for real conversation.”

“Let's get on with it.”

“If that's what you want.” Moriarty cleared her throat and the driver stepped forward. He placed the briefcase on the table and opened it with a soft click of the locks. He removed the folder that Joan had sent and placed it neatly between the two women.

“You sent it out so it could have a dramatic entrance back in?” Joan asked. She thought she caught a flicker of annoyance in Moriarty's eye before her implacable mask returned.

“They do have rules about what we're allowed to keep in our cells, Watson, dear.”

“And I'm sure you haven't found your way around them at all, and your thousand-dollar skin creams and personal aestheticians are less contraband than a folder of pictures.” Joan scrunched her nose at Moriarty's glare. “It's the eyebrows. They don't lie.”

“I believe you asked to get to the point, Watson, so would you be so kind as to let me?”

Joan sat back in her seat and held up her hands. “Be my guest.”

“Thank you.” Moriarty opened the folder and sorted through the contents for a moment, visibly composing herself. When she spoke again, placing the photos on the table in order as she mentioned them, her voice was perfectly, cooly neutral again.

“You provided photographs of a body and the surrounding environment, with objectives of determining how the woman died and for what reason. Your notes said that the pictures were not to be studied in any specific order. Still, some catch the attention faster than others.” The first picture was placed between them: a woman's body, lying prone in untrimmed grass. “Her clothing gives little information: jeans, a blue tank top, tennis shoes. I notice that the bottoms of the shoes are quite muddy, but given that she's outside, this may be a negligible detail.”

The second picture showed a room full of blue and green buckets, all with white lids secured with clips. “The labels are unreadable at this level of resolution, but they appear to be some sort of animal feed or supplement. The number of buckets is surprising, but it makes each individual one anonymous and indistinct.”

She moved the two pictures to the far edge of the table and placed a third in front of Joan. It showed a close-up on a small glass bottle containing small crystals. “Again, the label is indistinct. Syringes and a bottle of clear liquid, presumably saline solution or distilled water to dissolve the crystals, are visible in the background. I would have appreciated a shot of them in focus, Watson. At first I was extremely annoyed, because there's clearly a mailing label on that box in the background, but it's not readable, either.” She flashed a small smile across the table. “Then I looked through the rest of the photos and scolded myself for misjudging your sense of fair play.”

The fourth photo was a close-up on the label. “The shipment came from Miami Serpentarium Laboratories. That's a name guaranteed to get attention, hm? And delivered to White Creek Farms, of indecipherable, New York. How perfectly nondescript. It took me a great deal of research to determine which White Creek Farms this might be.”

Joan waited for a moment, then prompted. “And? Which one might it be?”

“Outside of Saratoga Springs.” Moriarty tapped her fingernail against the photo. “Dozens of racehorse stables around there, apparently. If not hundreds.”

Joan's breath caught in her throat, but she forced her face to remain blank and bored. “Continue, please.”

Moriarty sighed and placed the final photograph on the table. It showed a horse from the front, framed from the chest down. It held one front leg off the ground slightly, only the edge of the hoof gingerly resting on the ground. All of the joints were swollen and distinct. “And this is a horse who appears injured in some way.”

“Have you constructed a narrative?”

“Of course, darling, I wouldn't waste your time if I hadn't.” Moriarty sighed and dragged the pictures together into a pile again. “The laboratory only sells snake venom to licensed veterinarians, so I dismissed that as a false lead. However, its location in Miami did get me thinking. Some research into the family who owns White Creek showed extensive debt, and one man with family roots in Miami. That city's a well-known point of entry for the cocaine trade. Drugs could easily be smuggled in the supplement buckets, and the cash economy around horse breeding, training, and racing makes it a perfect money-laundering cover.”

Joan folded her hands on the table. “So you think it was a drug-related murder.”

“Yes.” Moriarty touched the stack of photographs again. “Most certainly.”

“But you dismissed the vial from the Miami laboratory as a false lead.”

“Correct. She was murdered with an injection of the saline solution, through introduction of a bubble to cause an embolism.” Moriarty sat back in her chair and raised her eyebrows at Joan. “A medical case, representing your area of expertise. As I gave you an art case, to represent mine.”

“A well-thought-out scenario,” Joan said, gathering the photos and returning them to their folder. “Plausible.”

Moriarty watched her face. Joan gave herself a few second to enjoy the cold, sharp annoyance beneath the woman's blasé veneer.

“But wrong?” Moriarty asked finally.

Joan nodded. “But wrong.”

Moriarty exhaled sharply. “One to one, then.”

“So it would seem.”

“You might as well tell me what the actual scenario was.”

“Oh.” Joan shrugged. “The horse stumbled, she fell and hit her head. Complete accident. Sherlock and I were brought in after the police found the vial of cobra venom. They were quite alarmed.”

“Cobra venom?” Moriarty asked sharply. “Those crystals?”

“Yes. It's dissolved in saline, as you posited, and injected in minute amounts to numb the legs of a sore or injured horse. So they can run on bad legs. Cruel and short-sighted, but in this case, not murder.”

“How in the world was I supposed to put that together?” Moriarty's voice was more curious than annoyed.

Joan met her eyes levelly. “How in the world was I supposed to know none of the paintings were forged?”

Moriarty inclined her head and leaned back in her seat. “Well-done, Watson.”

“Ms. Watson. Or Dr.”

“So I've been told.” Moriarty placed her palms flat on the table. “Will you indulge me in one question? I'm very curious.”

“You may ask. I won't promise to answer.”

“How did you know that I wasn't a stereotypical upper-class English girl with a crazed equestrian phase? I could well have been _extremely_ familiar with the workings of a stable.”

Joan raised her eyebrows. “The American racing industry is very different from anything any English girl would do with horses. But I did consider the possibility, for quite a long time.”

“And why did you discard it?”

Joan met her eyes. “Horses wouldn't hold any interest for you. They're animals. Smart for their kind, but driven by instinct and impulse. There's no layers there. Nothing to manipulate the way you love.” She shrugged. “They would _bore_ you. And you hate to be bored. If you ever spent any time around horses, it was under duress or as part of a scheme, not because they held your interest.”

Moriarty smiled again, her eyes blazing. “My mother thought every young lady should be able to ride. I did what was required of me, but no more.” She reached across the table, hesitating just before her hand would have met Joan's. “You know me better than I expected at this point, Ms. Watson.”

Joan stared down at Moriarty's hand a bare inch from her own. Her stomach clenched and her whole body felt hot and strange, every muscle tensed. "Just a basic extrapolation from what I know about you."

"You hardly know me at all yet, Joan."

The sound of her name from Moriarty's mouth went through Joan like a knife. "Are we on a first-name basis now? When did that happen?"

"Ah." Moriarty smiled faintly. "I've overstepped."

Joan shook her head and reached for her composure. "Let's get on with it."

"Of course." Moriarty turned her head to look at the guard. "Take Ms. Watson outside for a moment, please."

Joan shook her head. "I wish I was surprised that you've managed to buy off the guards."

"He's hardly bought _off_. Just encouraged to give me a bit of room now and then." Moriarty got to her feet. “We’ll take half an hour recess.”

The guard held his hand out to Joan. “Ms. Watson?”

She studied Moriarty’s face for a moment. The logical part of her mind was screaming at her to refuse, to not let Moriarty out of her sight, to insist that they get to the end of this game then and there. 

Her instincts, though, were telling her to trust Moriarty. And that scared the shit out of her.

Moriarty smiled at her, raising an eyebrow. “Do you want to ask me something?”

“No.” Joan got to her feet, trying to clear her head. She could analyze her dread and confusion outside the room. With any luck at all, her gut was right and that wouldn’t be too late. “Half an hour.”

**

The guard took her to another meeting room, this one empty. “I’ll be right outside,” he said. “I was instructed to give you privacy.”

“Thanks so much.” She didn’t bother to hide the sarcasm in the words, and he gave her a hard look before he stepped out and closed the door. She wasn’t making any friends today, apparently. Unless whatever was going on between her and Moriarty counted as friendship.

It didn’t. Of course it didn’t. It was, at most, a twisted and demented form of respect. Nothing else.

Joan dragged her hands through her hair, took a rough breath, and sat down at the table. She checked her phone; one message from Alfredo.

_All dead ends. Up to you now, Joan. Call if you need me, I’m on standby._

Exactly what she expected, but still disappointing. She texted back confirming she would be in touch, dropped her phone to the table, and looked up at the ceiling.

The purpose of the game was to win. That was basic, that was inherent. In this case, winning was possession of Sherlock. That was stated at the beginning of things.

Except she was beginning to think that wasn’t true at all, anymore.

If Moriarty really wanted Sherlock, she could’ve just taken him, spirited him away forever, instead of holding him captive and giving Joan the chance to win him back. Joan was certain now that the prison was only holding Moriarty because she didn’t care to leave it, for reasons of her own. If she wanted to be gone, she would be gone, in an instant.

And yet she was still there, and playing games.

Joan rubbed her hands against her thighs, letting herself slip into the state of mind where she could think like Moriarty, find her psychology, break things down the way Moriarty might. It was easy to get to that place, now; she hardly had to try at all. She was coming to understand her opponent very well.

Maybe that was the actual purpose of the game? Understanding? She won when she understood her opponent, inside and out?

Something about the idea nagged at her, but she couldn’t pin it down. She shook her head and picked up her phone again as it buzzed with another text from Alfredo.

_Stay sharp. Don’t trust her._

She smiled despite herself. Trust definitely wasn’t a possibility. Trust and understanding were entirely different things. She hadn’t slipped over _that_ line; she had enough sense for that.

A knock came at the door and she looked up as the guard stepped back in. “Let’s go, Ms. Watson.”

“It can’t possibly have been half an hour,” she said blankly.

He shrugged. “It has.”

Her stomach twisted in unease as she tucked her phone away and rose to follow him. Her sense of time and her sense of the game both slipping. She had to get control before she sat down across from Moriarty again.

_Deep breaths, Joanie. Focus. You’re here to play._

**

When Joan entered the room again, Moriarty was seated at the table with two wine glasses in front of her. Each was half-full of deep red liquid.

"A classic, as I said." Moriarty lifted the glasses so Joan could see them clearly. “Please, sit down.”

Joan studied the glasses for a moment, then sighed as Moriarty placed one in front of Joan’s chair and one in front of herself. "Are you kidding?"

"Not in the slightest."

Joan seated herself and shook her head. "You're ripping off The Princess Bride? I really thought you were going to be creative here."

"Ms. Watson." Moriarty folded her hands on the table. "I promised you a classic, and I assure you, this particular game was one long before the movie was made."

Joan took a moment, concentrating on her heartbeat and breath and letting herself think. This wasn’t at all what she had expected. It was too simple for Moriarty. There had to be another layer to it, some kind of twist. A trick. "So I'm supposed to decide which glass has the poison, based on what I know of you, et cetera, et cetera."

Moriarty nodded. "Precisely."

"Are you the sort of person who would put the poison in her enemy's glass, or her own?” Joan waved her hand. “Et cetera.”

"Are you quoting the film simply to buy time, darling?"

"Oh, is there a time limit, as well?" Joan stared at the glasses. "Did you prepare these yourself or did your friend here do it?"

"Myself, of course. I'd hardly trust anyone else with it."

Joan looked at the glasses again. They held equal amounts of liquid, were the same size, and in general were completely indistinguishable. Exactly as she would have expected, and that unnerved her. It was too simple. 

"Colorless, odorless, tasteless, I assume?" she asked.

"Of course." Moriarty smiled again. “You’re hedging for time.”

Joan ignored her. "Placed on the glass itself to dissolve in the wine?"

Moriarty made a face. "Grape juice."

"What?"

"I'm hardly going to let wine go to waste by being carried around this place, Watson."

"Oh my god." Joan sighed and closed her eyes. Her pulse was racing in time with her thoughts. She felt like she was chasing herself in circles, down blind alleys, trying to figure out how many steps ahead of her Moriarty might be. It was like when she was considering the painting of the bishops being a fake-out, only worse, because--

Her eyes snapped open and she met Moriarty's eyes again. It really was too simple. It was the same as the challenge she’d placed to Moriarty with the racing stable: strip away the levels and go back to the obvious.

She’d been right. This was the point of the game: to think alike.

"Neither of them,” she said.

Moriarty raised an eyebrow. "Pardon?"

"Neither of them is poisoned. You’re bluffing."

The cold, lovely eyes narrowed. "Make your case."

Joan reached for the glass in front of Moriarty. "After we drink."

Moriarty hesitated a moment, then took the other glass and raised it in a slight toast. "Your health, Ms. Watson."

Joan didn't return the gesture. She drank.

For a moment her heart raced even faster, as the fact that she might have been wrong hit her, and her body ran through the requisite panic of possibly imminent death. Adrenaline flooded her and she closed her eyes to wait out the reaction, forcing herself to breathe in and out on the count of three and remain still, perfectly still, not flinching for Moriarty's amusement.

Moriarty's voice broke the moment. "All right," she said, a hint of petulance in her tone. "Tell me how you knew."

Joan shrugged and took another careful breath before she answered. "You like a challenge, and I've given you one. You're not going to throw that away. You have to keep me around for the next time you get bored."

"Yet you reached for my glass, not your own."

"You're also the farthest from suicidal of anyone I've ever known."

Moriarty tipped her head back and laughed. "Oh, Dr. Watson. You're as much of a delight as Sherlock."

"Is that a compliment?"

"Entirely."

The door opened again and Moriarty cast an annoyed glance over her shoulder. "Yes?"

The guard cleared his throat awkwardly. "Time's up, ma'am."

Ma'am. So much for Moriarty being a prisoner. She absolutely had them wrapped around her finger. "When will Sherlock be released?"

Moriarty nodded toward the driver. "He'll go pick him up and bring him home as soon as he leaves here. He'll be on your doorstep by dinner."

"Unharmed."

"I don't break my word, Dr. Watson." Moriarty smiled and reached across the table again. Joan saw her hand move, knew that she was going to touch her this time, and yet she didn't move, didn't stop her, didn't pull away.

Moriarty's fingers curled loosely around Joan's wrist. "I'll miss you, Joan. I look forward to when we meet again."

Joan couldn't find her voice. She just sat there, still and silent, as Moriarty walked away.

**

Sherlock bore a distinct resemblance to a wet cat when he was delivered to the brownstone, in terms of being extremely angry, disheveled, and more than a little pathetic in his distress.

Her first impulse was to hug him, but she checked herself at the last second, catching his arms in her hands instead. “Are you all right?”

“It depends on the definition of the term.” He was practically vibrating under her hands, but he didn’t pull away. She’d chosen right, though; the level of tension in his body said clearly that if she had gone with her instinct, he would have jumped out of his skin.

“You’re in one piece, at least.” She stepped back, examining him from arm’s length. “No visible wounds or contusions.”

“Yes, quite.” He pulled away from her touch, turning to stare out the window at the street. “My captors were careful to leave me unharmed in the physical sense. Apparently they didn’t consider stultifying boredom and profound humiliation to be harm.”

“There’s no reason to be humiliated.”

“Watson, I shall be humiliated if I want to be, thank you very much.”

Joan felt safe in rolling her eyes. “I’m going to make tea. Do you want any?”

“No, thank you kindly, I’m fine.”

Petulance was the order of the day. She had to welcome it. If he was petulant, he wasn't hurt badly enough for her to be worried. It was time to be concerned when he was _quiet_.

She made her tea and settled back in a chair to sip it while he paced and lectured on the indignity of it all. He didn’t handle being outsmarted well at all, poor darling.

She froze, staring down into her cup as she caught her own thought. Those were Moriarty’s words, not hers. How had they slipped into her head?

"...and to top it all off, it's a fucking ugly tattoo."

Joan looked up. "What?"

He waved his arms, then thrust one of them at her. "Look! Look what they did."

The tattoo was fresh, the skin still red and swollen under the three words that ran along his arm. _Sempre Memori Hoc._ She realized with a shock that that was what had been different in the proof of health picture; a new line of ink on his arm. 

_Minus ten points for observation, Watson,_ Moriarty’s voice whispered in her head. _Be more careful next time, my dear. I’m hardly going to make the games easier, you know._

She blinked rapidly and focused on Sherlock again. "Always remember this?" she translated. "A little… pretentious, using Latin, don’t you think?”

"Well, that’s her, isn’t it?” He couldn’t keep the ache out of his voice, and she pressed her nails against her palms to keep from calling him on it. Now wasn’t the time to press on the remains of his relationship with Moriarty, or at least the ghost of Irene that lingered in her. 

“She wanted to rub my nose in it." He huffed and stalked away again. "I'll have to let it heal and then figure out a way to cover it."

She looked down at her own arm. An image flashed into her mind, impossibly real: Moriarty sitting in her cell at Newgate, dictating to her minions exactly how to mark Sherlock’s body, that faint, cruel smile in place as she shaped others to her liking.

Joan hadn’t meant to understand her like this. She’d needed to get into the woman’s head, yes, but she’d never considered that it might go both ways.

And yet she wasn’t sure she would close that door if she could.

"Where's your tattoo gun?" she asked, her voice soft and strange to her own ears.

Sherlock waved one hand irritably. "Really, Watson, I have to let it heal before I can do anything."

"No." She cleared her throat. "I want you to write the same thing on me."

He stopped, staring at her. "You're serious?"

"Yes."

His eyes narrowed slightly, then widened. He nodded. "Of course. You want to remember your victory over Moriarty. Your success. The victory belongs to you, Watson, nothing can take it away. But if a physical reminder is important to you, then of course. I'd be happy to."

She smiled slightly, reaching for her tea again and letting him move off into another blustering rant about the humiliation of being held like a common criminal. The fingers of her free hand brushed lightly against her arm, where the words would be.

Her victory, yes. Unless she hadn’t won at all; unless it was _Moriarty_ who won by the two of them understanding each other. Maybe finding her way into Moriarty’s mind, and letting the other woman into hers, wasn’t a door that could be closed at all. There was no way to know, not now. Not until some point in the future when this might well come back to explode in her face.

She rubbed her arm again. She felt all of that in an abstract way, but when she tried to focus on it, she could only see Moriarty's face, the flash of interest and recognition of an equal in her eyes. The thrill of that moment when understanding had sparked between them. Dangerous or not, it was exhilarating.

She would remember that.


End file.
